


Sick Day

by Lilac_the_wolf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Love, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Gen, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock Holmes, Sickfic, implied eating disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:40:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28226283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilac_the_wolf/pseuds/Lilac_the_wolf
Summary: Sherlock didn't listen his parents, and now he's sick. But his brother is here to take care of him, like he always is.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	Sick Day

It was a bad day, Sherlock decided the moment he woke up. It was six o'clock in the morning and in two hours he had to be at school. And he felt very warm even though it was the middle of winter. He remembered in a flash yesterday afternoon and his mother screaming:

“Don't play in the snow, you'll catch a cold !”

But Sherlock had been too busy fighting the terrifying Captain Blackbeard and his long nose that looked like a carrot to pay attention to his mother. And now there he was, in his bed, sweating, with a burning sensation and a ton of regrets. And he knew that his parents had already left for work and that his brother was going to come by to see him just seconds before leaving for school. He closed his eyes. If he ignored his fever, it would go away, he thought to himself. But no matter how hard he concentrated on thinking about something else, and how hard he closed his eyelids, it wouldn't go away. He was startled when he felt something cold on his forehead. He opened his eyes to see his brother leaning over him, an impassive look on his face.

“You're sick,” said Mycroft.

“No,” whispered Sherlock with a weak voice.

Mycroft stood up. He put his school bag, which he already had on his back, on the floor. Sherlock watched him leave the room and come back a minute later with a thermometer in his hand. He approached Sherlock and he opened his mouth. Mycroft placed the end of the thermometer in his mouth.

“Mummy told you you were going to catch a cold,” Mycroft reprimanded him.

“Sorry...,” mumbled Sherlock.

Mycroft picked up the thermometer and looked at it.

“You're not going to school today,” he said.

Sherlock was both relieved and worried.

“Does this mean I'm going to be alone all day?”

His brother seemed to hesitate for a moment before answering.

“No. I'll stay with you.”

Sherlock looked at him with a surprised look on his face.

“But what about your school?”

“I'll call them.”

And Mycroft gave him one of his rare smiles. He always had a serious look on his face, but Sherlock was proud to be able to put a smile on his face every once in a while.

“Will you stay with me?” Sherlock asked with a big smile.

Mycroft nodded and resumed a neutral expression. Sherlock suddenly got up in bed and immediately regretted it. His head was spinning and he fell back onto the pillow again. Mycroft leaned over him with his lips slightly pinched. He always did this when he was worried. At times like this Sherlock was always torn between the joy of seeing his brother worry about him and the sadness of seeing him worry about him. He put his hand on his forehead again. The touch was icy. His brother's hands were always cold, he didn't know why.

“I'm going to get you some paracetamol, and if it doesn't go down I'll take you to the doctor.”

Sherlock watched his brother leave the room a little quickly. He really didn't want to go to the doctor, he always found the waiting rooms too narrow and the people too numerous. But at least he would be with his brother. The latter came back a few minutes later with a tray in his hands. He put it on the bedside table and grabbed the glass with the medicine.

“Drink this,” said Mycroft, handing it to him.

Sherlock grimaced. But under his brother's insistent gaze he took the glass and dipped his lips in it.

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft.

His tone wasn't exactly authoritative but Sherlock didn't dare disobey him. There was nothing worse than to feel his reproachful gaze upon him. He swallowed the glass in one go with a grimace.

“You see, it wasn't so bad,” said Mycroft, taking the glass back with a little smirk on his face.

Sherlock stuck out his tongue. Sometimes he felt as if his brother took pleasure in his brother's pain. Mycroft ignored the offence and took a bowl from the tray he had brought.

“What is it? If it's soup I don't want it!”

“It's strawberries. With chocolate. You need vitamin C.”

“I'd prefer chips.”

Mycroft put the bowl down and stood up.

“All right, I won't force you.”

Sherlock knew it was manipulation. But he also knew he couldn't resist it.

“No, I want some,” Sherlock mumbled.

Mycroft sat back at the edge of the bed. Sherlock reached out his hands to take the bowl. Mycroft ignored him and dipped the spoon into the bowl. He brought it to his brother's mouth.

“I'm not...” Sherlock began to protest.

His brother took the opportunity to shove the spoon into his mouth. Sherlock chewed angrily before swallowing.

“I'm not a baby,” he protested.

“You're sick, let your big brother take care of you,” Mycroft said softly.

Sherlock crossed his arms, a look of defiance fixated on his brother. He wasn't going to let himself be humiliated like that. Mycroft again brought the spoonful to his little brother's mouth. Sherlock reluctantly opened his mouth. His brother had a satisfied smile on his face. Sherlock felt that treating him as if he were still four years old made his brother happy. So he resigned himself. He finished the bowl in about ten minutes.

"Isn't it nice to be served?" Mycroft asked after he'd finished.

Sherlock replied with a grunt. Mycroft put his hand on his forehead again.

"Your fever's gone down a bit, it looks like. How are you feeling?"

"Sick," Sherlock just answered.

"I'm going to let you rest."

And before he could protest, his brother was gone again.

Sherlock was left alone for what seemed like countless hours but was actually only fifteen minutes. When his brother returned, Sherlock was busy staring at the ceiling light in his room. It was blinking once every one minute and thirty-two seconds, he would have to tell his father to change the bulb. Mycroft came in and sat on the edge of the bed again.

“I'm bored,” Sherlock said.

All he wanted to do was go back to the garden and finish his battle against Blackbeard. But as soon as he moved his head it felt like it was about to explode.

“Do you want me to tell you a story?” Mycroft asked.

“If you tell me one now, will you still tell me one tonight?”

“Yes,” smiled Mycroft.

Sherlock smiled a wide smile.

“I want a pirate story !”

Sherlock wasn't quite sure why he was specifying it, as it was the only kind of story his brother told him. And the only kind of story Sherlock liked. Maybe there was a connection, Sherlock thought. After thinking for a few seconds, Mycroft began:

“This is the story of the dreadful pirate Roberts...”

Sherlock woke up a few hours later, realising that he had shamefully fallen asleep in the middle of the story. His brother was still there, sitting on a chair beside his bed, absorbed in a book written in a language Sherlock didn't even know.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock called out.

He raised his head from his book.

“Why do we get sick?”

Mycroft put his book on the bedside table. He folded his hands and looked at Sherlock who was waiting patiently for his answer.

“Do you want a long explanation or a short one?”

“Short.”

Mycroft leaned over towards him.

“So that big brothers can take care of their little brothers.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“It's not because of some scientific stuff ?” he wondered.

“No,” Mycroft assured him.

Sherlock didn't really believe him, but he preferred not to protest.

“I still want chips,” Sherlock said suddenly.

“It's the middle of the afternoon.”

“I haven't eaten lunch today.”

Mycroft stood up.

“All right.”

“Does this mean you're going to leave me alone?” Sherlock asked.

“I've got no choice.”

Sherlock pouted.

“I can get up,” he said, standing up.

He immediately regretted it. He took his head in his hands.

“No, you can't,” said Mycroft.

“No, I can't,” Sherlock mumbled.

Mycroft held out his arms to him.

“I'm not a baby.”

“You're eight years old, so you are.”

And before his brother could protest any further, he took him in his arms and lifted him up. Sherlock clung to him without saying anything. He would rather die than admit it, but he didn't want his brother to let him go. Because he was comfortable in his arms, and he didn't want to fall to the ground. Mycroft came out of the bedroom with his brother in his arms and carefully walked down the stairs to the living room. He laid Sherlock on one of the sofas before heading to the open kitchen. Now out of the comfort of his bed or his brother's arms, Sherlock started to get cold. He rolled himself into a ball with his head on one of the many cushions.

“Is it ready soon ?” he asked aloud.

“We've been down for only minute,” replied Mycroft, who had just opened the freezer door.

Sherlock liked it better when the chips were homemade but he would never ask his brother that. Mycroft loved to cook. And he was very bad at it. Sherlock didn't like to think about how many of the disgusting cakes he had had to eat over the years just so he wouldn't hurt his brother's feelings. His problem was that he always followed the recipes to the letter, without paying attention to what he was doing with the ingredients. Sherlock thought back with a shudder to a chocolate cake from his sixth birthday where the recipe writer had forgotten to note that the eggs had to be taken out of their shells before they were added. His mother's look of horror when she took a bite was etched in his memory. But when it came to reheating something frozen, there wasn't too much risk. He heard the oven start. He just had to hope that the time on the package was right.

“Mycroft?,” called Sherlock.

His brother turned to him.

“Can I have some chocolate with it?”

Mycroft sighed. Sherlock's weird craze for chips with chocolate was the result of a recipe error that had replaced a vaguely caramel flavoured sauce with chocolate sauce.

“Just because you're sick,” replied Mycroft.

Sherlock smiled.

He spent the next thirty minutes watching his brother from behind, busy in the kitchen, getting a little worried when he saw him looking for a way to melt chocolate in a recipe book, but as the smell began to spread around the house, he felt a little reassured. Soon he brought him the whole dish and put it on the little table in front of the sofa. Sherlock remained lying on the couch.

“Sherlock ?”

“I don't have the strength to get up,” he mumbled.

Mycroft lifted him halfway up to make him sit down.

“Thank you, big brother,” Sherlock said, looking at him.

Mycroft gave him another of his rare smiles. Sherlock selfishly turned away from him as he sat down beside him and attacked the dish in front of him. The chips may have been a little burnt, but the taste of the chocolate covered the rest of it enough to make it delicious. As Sherlock devoured all he could, Mycroft just stared at him.

“Do you want some too?” Sherlock finally asked, when almost half of the dish had just disappeared in the blink of an eye.

“No, thanks.”

Sherlock looked him up and down.

“You don't have to diet anymore.”

Mycroft put his hand to his stomach, as if to hide it.

“I'm not taking any chances,” he said.

Sherlock decided not to insist. He knew the subject could be sensitive. And anyway, it left more for him. He took two more bites before he settled back into the couch.

“You can save some for tonight,” said Mycroft.

“I'll do that.”

Mycroft got up and went to put the dish in the fridge. Sherlock couldn't imagine the moment when he would look up in a book how to reheat chips with chocolate. He closed his eyes for a moment. He wanted to sleep again. He didn't even see his brother sitting next to him and didn't realise he was back until he put his hand on his forehead.

“Are you all right ?” He asked softly.

Sherlock nodded. He felt a little better, just very tired. And he'd eaten a bit too much. He climbed onto his brother's lap and snuggled up to him, resting his head on his shoulder. Mycroft pulled him close.

“Mycroft ?” Sherlock said, raising his head towards him.

“Hm ?”

“Why do you always take care of me ? Isn't it boring ?”

Mycroft stared at him for a moment before answering.

“You're my little brother, I'll never find you boring.”

Sherlock wasn't sure exactly what he wanted to hear, but he knew it wasn't that.

“There's a boy in my class who fights with his big brother all the time,” Sherlock said.

“It means he doesn't like his little brother, it happens.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. He had just figured out what he wanted to hear.

“Mycroft ?” he said, looking at his big brother with an air of expectation.

He seemed to understand what his little brother wanted, but he just answered with a smile. Sherlock looked disappointed. Mycroft took a deep breath.

“Sherlock... you know I love you,” he whispered.

He'd said it in a low voice, as if the words would shatter if he said them too loud. Sherlock had a big smile on his face.

“I love you too.”

He buried his head against his brother's shoulder again. He felt lighter and a little less sick. Mycroft didn't say anything more so Sherlock closed his eyes and let himself go. A few minutes later he was asleep again.

He only woke up when it was already dark outside. Only the light of the moon and the lamp on his bedside table illuminated his room. His brother had put him to bed. Sherlock looked at the empty chair beside his bed with disappointment before he realised that Mycroft hadn't left him alone, he had just stepped away.

“Yes, tomorrow.”

He turned his head towards the door frame of his bedroom door. His brother was sitting in the shadow, on the floor, his legs bent against his chest, the telephone stand on his lap, the telephone pressed against his ear. He had had to stretch the wire as far as he could in order to stay in his brother's room.

“Mycroft ?,” called Sherlock.

He immediately raised his head.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” he whispered into the telephone receiver before hanging up.

He put the phone down on the floor and stood up.

“Mum and Dad will be home soon,” said Mycroft, “it's almost time.”

Sherlock watched as he approached him.

“Who were you on the phone with ?”

“A classmate.”

He sat on the edge of his brother's bed.

“I don't want Mum or Dad, I want you to stay with me.”

Sherlock loved his parents, but he wasn't ashamed to think he preferred his brother. Maybe because his brother never raised his voice, and understood him most of the time. Mycroft smiled at him, tenderly.

“I'm staying. All night if you want.”

Sherlock got out of the sheets of his bed and climbed onto his brother's lap. His headache had subsided enough to allow him to move around without too much trouble. Mycroft held his brother in his arms and he put his head against his chest.

“Who was that?” Sherlock asked again, nodding at the telephone at the entrance to the room.

“I told you, a classmate.”

“But why was he calling you ?” Sherlock insisted.

Mycroft looked away to answer.

“He wondered why I didn't come to school.”

Sherlock immediately felt guilty. Unlike him, his brother had always been popular. So he blamed himself for taking him away for a whole day.

“I told him I'd rather take care of my little brother,” Mycroft said.

“Is that true ?”

“You know I do.”

Sherlock smiled. He felt lucky and special.

“Big brother?”

Mycroft looked at him.

“Will you still take care of me when I am no longer a child ?”

“Of course I will. You will always be my little brother. I'll be there for you until the day I die, and even afterwards if it's possible,” Mycroft murmured.

It was a bit morbid, Sherlock thought. But he didn't think his brother realised it.

“You promise ?” he asked him.

“I swear.”

And as if to seal his promise, he kissed him on the forehead. Sherlock snuggled up to his brother, his eyes closed.

“I'm still sleepy,” he whispered.

He opened his eyes.

“Can you tell me the rest of the story from earlier ?”

Mycroft nodded and was about to lift Sherlock back into bed.

“No !” protested his little brother. “I want to stay in your arms.”

“All right,” he said.

But he put him back in the bed anyway, just before he laid down next to him. Sherlock placed himself all against him.

“Where have I stopped ?” asked Mycroft.

The question was more: when did Sherlock fall asleep?

“At the moment when the ship was being attacked by the sirens.”

“Oh yes, the arrival of the sirens...”

And he picked up the story from where he'd left it, Sherlock listening intently, his eyes shining.

When Mr. and Mrs. Holmes returned home a little less than an hour later, they found the door to Sherlock's room open, the telephone still in the hall, the curtains open, the lamp on the bedside table still lit, and their two sons asleep together in the bed. Mrs. Holmes closed the curtains quietly while Mr. Holmes turned off the light. They both went out, taking the telephone with them, and then gently closed the door without saying a word.

Sherlock woke up in the middle of the night, a little disoriented. At first he thought he woke up because he had already slept all day. Then he realized that the blankets were pushed back and he was alone in his bed. His bedroom door was ajar. Sherlock got up slowly without too much difficulty. His head was almost clear and his pain was almost gone. Slowly he tiptoed out of his room. He didn't want to wake his parents. He started walking towards his brother's room, which was right across the hall from his own, and then he noticed that there was light coming from the bathroom. So he turned away from his path and went to open the door.

“Mycroft ?,” He said as he saw him.

His brother, who was leaning over the sink, turned suddenly towards him. He had a worried look on his face which dissipated as soon as he saw his little brother.

“I woke you up, I'm sorry,” he said.

Sherlock entered the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He didn't want the light or the sound of their voices to wake up their parents, as they could be particularly irascible under these circumstances.

“Are you all right ?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft looked paler than usual.

“Everything's all right,” he replied.

It was clearly a lie. Sherlock grabbed the thermometer from the edge of the sink. It wasn't off yet, so he could read the number and see what was happening.

“You've caught my cold,” Sherlock said, looking up at his brother.

Mycroft looked away.

“It's not your fault,” he mumbled.

Of course, he didn't want Sherlock to feel guilty. So he felt even more guilty.

“It is,” Sherlock said. “It's because you've been with me all day.”

Mycroft crouched down in front of him and took his hands in his own.

“I'd rather be sick than not spend time with you.”

“But it's still my fault,” Sherlock mumbled.

“You should be happy Sherlock,” Mycroft replied.

He looked at him without understanding. He really didn't see why he should be happy about making his brother sick.

“You're still a bit sick, aren't you ?” Mycroft asked him.

Sherlock nodded affirmatively.

“So tomorrow you're going to stay home too.”

Sherlock's eyes lit up suddenly.

“And now you're sick too,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft nodded with a small smile.

“That means that tomorrow we can stay together too !”

And Sherlock put his arms around his brother. Mycroft hugged him back. Sherlock looked up at him.

“But your classmate isn't going to be happy,” he said.

“He'll be all right,” Mycroft replied.

Mycroft stood up, taking Sherlock in his arms.

“But first you have to go back to bed,” said Mycroft.

“Will you come with me ? You're already sick anyway.”

“I'll drop you off in your room and I'll be right back. I'm going to take some medicine.”

Sherlock didn't protest openly but clung to his brother with all his might. Mycroft seemed to get the message and went down to the kitchen with his brother in his arms. He placed him on the kitchen counter and poured himself a glass of water. He dropped the medicine and mixed it all together with a spoon. He swallowed it all in one go without the slightest emotion, not even disgust, showing on his face. Sometimes Sherlock wondered if his brother was a robot. But he knew it wasn't true because the time he dared to ask him was one of the rare times he had been able to hear his brother laugh. Sherlock liked to think that he was the only one who could make his brother laugh. He had heard him laugh once on the phone, but he preferred to pretend it never happened.

“Sherlock ?”

He was taken away from his thoughts. He hadn't realised that his brother was standing in front of him with his arms outstretched. In truth, Sherlock would have been perfectly capable of getting up on his own. Besides, his brother was ill, and it was not good for him to try too hard. But Sherlock was selfish. So he almost let himself fall against his brother. The latter climbed up the stairs with a little more difficulty than before, but he still managed to get to Sherlock's room without knocking anything over and without visibly waking up their parents. He stumbled against the telephone cabinet, but recovered quickly. Finally they were back in Sherlock's bed. He returned to his original position, snuggled up against his brother. He couldn't help smiling at the thought that tomorrow he could spend another day alternating between long naps and spending time with his big brother. He felt a hand ruffling his hair.

“Good night Sherlock,” whispered Mycroft.

“Good night big brother,” he also answered in a whisper.

He closed his eyes and let himself go. He didn't know what the future had in store for him, but one thing was certain, at that very moment his life could not have been more perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it !  
> Feel free to leave comments and tell me what you think :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The mysterious noise in the night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28582383) by [Enolaholmes468](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enolaholmes468/pseuds/Enolaholmes468)




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